


Guns and Ammo

by GwendolynGrace



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Injured John, Kids with guns, Pre-Series, Sibling Rivalry, Swearing, Weechesters, Young Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-14
Updated: 2007-07-14
Packaged: 2018-10-23 22:21:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10728450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynGrace/pseuds/GwendolynGrace
Summary: Sam and Dean discuss the proper filing system for weapons, who's to blame for Dad's injury, and why Sam is a bitch.





	Guns and Ammo

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 2007, before subsequent canon may have joss'd it.

**1992**

Dean backed out of the room where Dad had, finally, let the drugs knock him out for a few hours. As he came around the corner to the kitchen, Dean surveyed the weapons spread out on the heavy table. They were arranged in order, knives on the left by blade length, hand guns down the center, and rifles on the right, all by caliber. It wasn’t every day that Sam decided to clean every single weapon in their arsenal - wasn’t often that they even had access to all of them. But Dad was laid up with a dislocated knee, along with a bunch of torn ligaments in that leg, so there were no missing weapons out on the road with him.

“Whoa, Sammy,” Dean said, picking up a Bowie knife to test its edge, “I never realized that weapons had a filing system.”

Sam grunted in response. His tongue poked out between his lips as he concentrated on scrubbing the barrel of the 12-gauge. At nine years old, his arms were so short that he could barely reach the stock from the barrel-end; instead, he had leaned the stock against his chair and tamped the brush at an angle.

“So…Anal-retentive Boy, any particular reason for recreating the Guns and Ammo catalog on our kitchen table?”

Sam grunted again, but this time it sounded like a negative. Clearly, he didn’t want Dean to push. So Dean pushed.

“Sam, you know, Dad didn’t say you had to do this. What’s with the sudden urge?”

This time, the only answer was the crack of the shotgun as Sam clicked the barrel in place and tested the pump. He looked up at Dean with a glare that could have made ice melt.

“What?” Dean asked.

“It’s my fault, Dean,” Sam mumbled.

Dean sighed. He knew first-hand the feelings stirred up by disappointing Dad, and how hot that look of Dad’s could sear. He would rather push himself to exhaustion than risk being met with that expression, that sadness in Dad’s eyes.

“Sam, it’s not--” he began.

“Yes, it _is,_ Dean!” Sam cut him off in a savage stage-whisper.

Sam tossed the barrel-brush onto the table. “ _I_ cleaned Dad’s guns before he went on that hunt. _I_ checked his ammo kit. It was my job and I blew it, and now Dad’s leg’s all screwed up.”

“Sammy, come on,” Dean said. He sat down, absently checking a .38. “Dad’s the one who taught us that you check your own weapons - you don’t take anyone else’s word for it. He said himself that it wasn’t running out of ammo that caught him flat-footed, it--”

“It was the gun jamming up, I know,” Sam interrupted.

“Yeah, but that’s because he slipped in the mud, Sam, got mud in the gun,” Dean offered. “It’s not because of anything you did.”

“Then why does he look at me like he can’t stand me?” Sam whined, and tears spilled out of his brown eyes.

Dean leaned his head on his hand and sighed. “He doesn’t…he’s not mad at you, Sammy.”

“Yeah, sure, Dean,” Sam said with palpable sarcasm. He lined the double-barrel up among the other weapons, deliberately taking his time to get it right. “It’s not like _you_ know how it feels.”

“Course I do!” Dean said hotly, then wished he hadn’t opened that line of conversation.

“Right, ’cause you’re always such a, such a fuck-up.” He fired the word like a bullet to test the cleaned guns.

“Whoa, language, Sammy! Anyways, you think I don’t know that look?” Dean spit back, trying to regulate his voice, aware how thin the walls, how light Dad’s sleep, even drugged. “You think Dad’s never looked at me that way? You think I don’t know what it’s like to disappoint him?”

“When, Dean? Far as I can tell, you’re his perfect son--it’s like nothing you do is ever wrong.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s because I know how important it is, Sammy--I work hard to be perfect!” His voice rose despite himself. They both held still for a moment, listening for any sound from the room where their father was sleeping. Dean watched Sam in the silence. He wanted to tell Sam that he still felt the sting from Fort Douglas, but if Sam didn’t remember that unfortunate episode, Dean wasn’t about to dig it up. He’d rather it stayed buried. When he was satisfied that Dad slept on, he said, more quietly, “You don’t have anything to worry about, Sam--he lets you get away with tons of things I can’t even think about doing.”

Sam snorted.

“I’m serious, Sammy. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

“Dean, you’re crazy. Dad thinks I’m just a baby.”

“Yeah, and he thinks I’m just your babysitter.”

The words came out before he could stop them, and Dean instantly wished he could swallow them back down. Sam’s tears had dried, but his eyes still burned with resentment for the confirmation of his suspicions.

“ _You’re_ his favorite, Sammy,” Dean pressed softly. “Trust me--if I didn’t do everything Dad says, and do it right, he’d never let me hear the end of it. You? Sammy, he’d cut me up for spare parts if it meant saving you.” He kept his tone flat, emotionless, focused only on convincing Sam. He didn’t dare look at him. _Bitter much?_ he thought, but pushed that thought aside.

Sam shook his head, and Dean could feel the shift in Sam’s attitude. “Dean….”

“It’s okay, Sammy.” Dean winked at him, flashing his million-dollar smile--not the quick one used for petty con games and to cover-up embarrassment, but the genuine one, the one usually reserved for pretty teachers and waitresses. And Sam. “I don’t know if he’d let you get away with swearing like that, though. Where’d you pick that up, anyway?”

“Around,” Sam evaded.

Dean grunted. “No more HBO over at Gil’s house.”

“You’re not my boss, Dean.”

“No? Want me to tell Dad that you picked up language like that?”

Sam blanched. “No,” he admitted.

“Okay, then…. Want me to look these over before Dad sees them, for any spots you missed?”

“Jerk,” Sam replied, and Dean laughed at the return of Sam’s smile. Sam leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in a perfect imitation of Dean. “Go ahead. I dare you to find something wrong with them.”

“Okay, Smarty-pants,” Dean answered, shrugging. “But just because you’re so sure of yourself, if I find any problems with anything, you’re my bitch for life.”

**Author's Note:**

> Original A/N: I saw that it's eloise_bright's birthday, and I can't let that go unmarked.
> 
> So for the occasion, I'm dedicating this fic to her. Wee!Chesters ROOL, and she's one of the best at writing them. I wish I could say I wrote this for her specifically, but that would be overstating.


End file.
